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Election time is looming large over us with almost daily rallies, shrill speeches that not say much more than one leader attacking the other in a perpetual cat and mouse game that turns annoying. Every party is blowing its bugle and enumerating its achievements and seeking our seal of approval that should translate in our vote on the right symbol. Some statements are so ludicrous that one does not know of one needs to laugh or cry. In a recent speech a young aspirant to the highest office stated: that when he had first come to the region, he had suffered mosquito bites and when he had consumed water in a village, it had got his stomach upset. “But I was happy. Politicians should know the hardships faced by people“. I heard the speech and it made me jump. To many questions begged to be answered: why after 60 years of Independence when the said politician’s party has been in the seat of power for decades does one not have clean drinking water for every citizen; did he know that it is this very water that gave him a stomach upset quickly cured by the best doctors, that kills 5000 children a day! And will having faced this hardship for one day make him do something to make things better. What he suffered for one day, millions have to bear everyday. Do our politicians realise how many of their voters spend their lives in survival mode in silence and dignity, pursuing small goals that they strive to realise? Not many, if any!

A well known magazine celebrates its 18th anniversary and in its special issue includes and article entitled: Eighteen yellow roses in a bouquet. They are the thoughts from 18-year-olds who have much to prove, to themselves and to the generations before them. They are stories of gentle and simple hope and I urge you to read them. I will profile the two that touched me the most.

Shamsher ( I chose to place his photo as his face touched me deeply), is a lad who had to drop out of school because of illness and poverty. He wants all Indians to be happy. His goal is to be a tailor and his idol the tailor master who is teaching him stitching.

Sunita was born in a Naxalite infested Gadchiroli and at 12 had to chose between marriage or forced employment with the Naxals. She chose neither and ran away and joined a boarding school. Her dream to be a police officer and her fantasy: to fly in the sky!

They are young Indians with simple dreams, dreams that could be fulfilled if anyone cared. Shamsher and Sunita are the true faces of India, the ones that have been let down but have not given up hope. The ones that build a life in spite of all odds. The ones we should all care for. But do we?

An article entitled Hands off do gooders caught my attention this week. It begins with the words: come April, big corporations in India will be mandated to spend 2 per cent of their profits on being responsible citizens. Even a person like me who has no head or concept of figures can work out that this is a hefty amount. This caught my eye as I have been deeply disturbed by the future of project why, more so in the wake of the present situation at home that has made death to real to me. As you know we were not able to raise funds to build our guest house cum children centre we had fondly called planet why! Then it may have seemed to many as complete silence. Yes silence it was, but not in my head where new options churned madly amidst a feeling of failure at not having been able to raise the funds we needed. Quite frankly it was a paltry sum for many, yet one that was as inaccessible as the moon for us.

The fault was mine as I should have put on my designer (sic) clothes and fluttered my eyelashes at page 3 does and maybe would have got a percentile of the big profits of corporate houses. This may have been possible in the era before project why, but when the need arose I had already mutated into a recluse. The big planet why dream had to be quietly entombed. Since project why has been running on auto pilot (not a bad thing). Every end of month the heart flutters a little when salaries and rents have to be paid and one heaves a sigh of relief when all monthly payments are made. Yet this cannot go on. We have to become sustainable and also have our own building as being at the mercy of landlords is not a solution.

What you see in the picture is a plot of land close to our women centre and to the Madanpur Khader rehabilitation colony. This means the it is legal and the people who all belong to underprivileged sections of society will not be moved (or so one hopes). Actually most of them were relocated from the Nehru Place slum and other South Delhi slums. This is not the case with Okhla where slums clusters can be razed any time and all our kids moved.

The plan that is churning in my mind is to sell our plot in Najafgarh as it has appreciated substantially and purchase a smaller plot. The remaining money would be used to build a centre tailored to the amount in hand. I believe it will be easier to raise funds for one additional room at a time according to the needs. At present we would like the centre to accommodate roughly what we run at the women centre in addition to a day care for special needs children and a creche. And in keeping with the sustainability need, have space allocated to activities that can be offered at reasonable prices. Though one has to yet defined those as this would be done after a survey of the area and the needs of the target audience, one is thinking on the lines of TV and AC repair, spoken English etc. These classes could also be held after working hours and on Sundays.

So to those who may feel that I am AWOL, believe me Project Why is on my mind day and night. I watch it running perfectly with a sense of pride and humility. What an incredible team we have! I must make sure to leave them a solid legacy, particularly to those who have stood by me through trials and tribulations over the past years. Something they can build on as no matter how hubristic one may be the saying: The King is dead Long Live the King is so true!

This picture may look a bit incongruous to illustrate any post. It was taken at Utpal’s sports day when the children released balloons in the air and one was a little late in clicking the camera. But the balloons triggered my involuntary memory and to took me back to my childhood and to a lovely movie that I saw many times: Le Ballon Rouge or the Red Balloon. It is a must watch film even after half a century! It i a movie that makes you laugh and cry at the same time.As a little girl the the red balloon had magic properties and the ability to follow and lead his friend the little boy. It had a mind of its own and yet got destroyed by an gang of bullies. But then when all hope is lost, balloons appear from nowhere and take the little boy on a balloon ride over the city. When I first saw the film I remember now how the smile came on a face where tears had not yet dried!

When the balloons flew over the hazy Delhi sky, I felt transposed to the moment when I first saw the film and all the balloons that came to wipe the little boy’s tears. I knew I had to take a picture of the moment, even if it was not a great one.

Project Why is my Ballon Rouge. It came one day into my life one day when I was lost and when all my feelings had frozen and led me for the past 13 years on a magical expedition that made me discover things are never knew existed but more than that on a journey within myself where I discovered strengths that I never knew I had. Today I fear for my Ballon Rouge. A simple prick could kill it. The balloons in the sky were a reminder of the fact that I need to anchor Project Why as soon as I can.

If you have 34 minutes, do see the film and try to imagine what your Ballon Rouge is!

Over the moon part 1 was on my other blog! It was about one man in my life. This one is about the other : Popples. Today was his sports day and PTM in his new school. The programme was from 9 am to 3 pm. I must admit I was a little apprehensive as the old biddy gets tired and the prospect of watching races was not very appealing as the day promised to be hot and Popples was not participating as he has been in school for less than a week. We reached around 10.30 am and tried to find our way to the grounds. We thought we would sneak into the back row as I do not like being late and Mamaji as usual had arrived late! Imagine my surprise bordering on shock when I saw the Principal’s Secretary heading our way. God I was embarrassed. She led us to the podium and Shaku Maa’m the Principal got up to greet us and sat us next to her in the VIP podium. I was giving dirty looks to Mamaji for having not got us there on time. Mayla, a young volunteer from Germany was with us. We watched the races and clapped with enthusiasm. I spotted Utpal distributing bananas at the other side of the ground where the children were seated. But that was not all, the three of us were even requested to hand out medals and cups. It was a great moment.

After the programme we were escorted to the Principal’s house where a table for 12 was laid and we ate a wonderful meal, the same one that was served to the children and the other parents.  On the way we briefly saw Utpal who looked a little perplexed. I wondered why. After lunch it was PTM time but I spent a moment with Popples and he was all excited about the school. My worries were allayed. The Principal had told me that I could take him home for the night and he could come back on the school bus that comes near our house, but he decided not to. You see there was chicken on the menu tonight. He also told us that he would spend Diwali with his friends. He introduced us to some of them. I was over the moon. But there was more.

When we finally got to his teacher and I tried to be a little diffident in talking about his academic performance, his lovely class teacher told me was good in maths, very creative, excellent in art and a very obedient and helpful child. I could not stop my eyes from welling up. Was this the same child about whom I had been told just a few weeks ago that he was a liar!

The Colonel Satsangi’s Kiran Memorial school is a school with a heart. You see it was set up in the memory of a loved one and taken over by a daughter to honour her wonderful parents. To me it has the same spirit as Project Why.

I know Utpal will bloom in this school and find the right direction to fulfil his destiny.

It has been a blessed day.

I normally never get over excited during election. Often I only realise it is election time when posters and banners (thankfully not many now) are erected or when politicians gather in car convoys while one is going to work or when noisy cavalcades headed by drum beaters and preceded by party workers handing flower garlands to bystanders urging them to loop them around the already garland laden neck of the candidate who normally walks in a trance hands folded and a beatific smile on his lips. The whole thing looks farcical and makes me wonder how such a parade helps voters in deciding who to vote for. Today’s voters, even the illiterate ones are quite savvy though a bottle of hooch and a roasted chicken led could make them vote for you!

This time, I was reminded of forthcoming elections well in advance when two uniformed  cops landed home with a letter asking that I deposit my gun (before I go further I must state that I inherited a small pistol that pa gave mama way back in 1950; I do not think it has ever been fired. For me it is simply a memento of my parents and I have no ammunition. It have not got rid of it because I do not want it to in the wrong hands.) at the police station till the end of elections. This has never happened earlier and I wonder how it will help in containing violence when there are so many illegal arms around. Anyway this is just to tell you how I became aware of the Delhi elections well before the posters and cavalcades.

I have normally voted each time I have been in town and on the list, as being on the list has varied from election to election and all my efforts have not got us a voter’s card yet! Anyway let us see what happens this time. What I know is that I am no more the candid and naive person who voted with stars in her eyes. I did come from a nationalist freedom fighter family and Congress was the house mantra. My husband use to make fun of us by saying that in our home even the ants were Congress followers. My childhood had been replete with freedom stories that were more than real as the protagonists were my own blood and flesh. Congress was a hallowed word. When still a little girl I came to know that Pandit Nehru was the one to have coaxed my father to leave his judicial career in Mauritius and join the Indian Foreign Service. I still remember the breakfast we had at Teen Murti House where I was witness to Nehru’s proverbial temper as the omelette he was served was overdone. When I came to voting age there was no question of my not voting Congress.

The next chapter of my ‘political’ life was when I was called upon to be Mrs Indira Gandhi’s interpreter and was interviewed by her. When she came to know I was Kamala’s daughter she laughed and said had she known that she would not have bothered to call me. Being her interpreter revealed a very humane side of this iron lady. I remember her being the only dignitary I interpreted for who made sure that I was fed, even if that meant a few minutes delay in the programme. I must admit I mastered the art of eating faster than I do and that is saying a lot. When I accompanied her to Srinagar in May 1974, I was clueless about the weather in Kashmir and no one had told me it would be cold. I just went with Delhi summer clothes. When we got off the plane she saw me turning blue and asked me if I had any warm clothes. I told her I did not but would get something. When I reached my hotel room I found a shawl and one of her legendary capes on my bed! There are many more instances. Maybe I will write about them some day as I had the occasion of working closely with her in many international summits and conferences. Needless to say I still voted Congress.

Having launched myself as a Conference Organiser, I was asked to organise a Youth Congress North South Dialogue which was as sort of coming of age for Rajiv Gandhi. The bond we established over an argument about the placing of India delegates to ensure that Iraq and Iran would not sit together, an argument where he took my side would last till the day he was assassinated. I would work for the Asian Games (these too merit a book) and then spearheaded an evaluation of the 20 point programme across India and finally was his letter writer after he lost elections till he died. Those years showed me the innards of politics and it was nothing short of ugly. My heart was still Congress but somehow I did not vote for a few elections.

I could not have voted BJP. Any party that can whip up enough hate to break a house of God could and can never get my support. Any one who breeds hate is not for me. The options were few. In one election I even exercised my right not to vote but that seemed futile. Even the NOTA button heralded as a big thing does not make any difference unless there is some action if and when NOTA votes are above a certain percentage.

By now I was no more the starry eyed. I had not only seen the inside of a political party but also the reality on the ground, the false promises, the hijacked social programmes, the state of the schools run by the Government, the total lack of health facility for the poor, the inhuman conditions in which families live in the haphazard slums that erected any and everywhere, even next to factories that spew chemical laden water and smoke. I have seen how the children of this country have been let down, I have seen the political dramas enacted time and again and played for the media gallery. I have seen that nothing changes. So how does one bring about change?

In the forthcoming elections there is a new party the AAP that is fighting its election honestly, I hope, with candidates and issues we relate to. But how will they perform once in power. Power corrupts. That is a sad but true statement. However this time people are fed up and I a surprised to see how many of them want to give the neophytes a chance. From the humblest to erstwhile staunch supporters of political parties, all have decided to support the broom! The logic is to give a visibly honest and sincere party a chance.

I would like to exercise my vote if the powers that be ensure that I am on the hallowed list but I still do not know which way to go. I would like to give my vote to someone who sees children begging or working and remembers that too have all the rights enshrined in our Constitution including the Right to Education. I would like to vote for someone who realises that there is too much wrong around us and it is time to address situations head on, someone who works not for the interest of one class, one religion, one segment of society but for the poorest of the poor, someone who hangs his head in shame when faced with the fact that even today 5000 children under five die every day because we cannot give them proper nutrition, clean drinking water and basic health care.

Maybe I ask for too much.

Growing up is hard, child. Otherwise everyone would do it! This was his size when he first went to boarding school. He was 4 years and 5 months. Thursday last he set off for his new school with a smile and a spring in his gait. I did not even get my goodbye hug. He was very excited. The admission took a long time and we never knew he had to sit for a test. He did not like that part at all and apparently did not give it his best. But that was a formality. After all formalities and shopping for new uniforms, books and bedding, he was taken away by his hostel warden. What happened next is a mystery that will be revealed when we see him. That won’t be long as his Founder’s Day is on the 23rd.

This child of God has taken a new step in his life journey. When I look back at his tiny life that extends to just over a decade I am mystified by the number of changes this tiny chap has been made to endure. In the first year of his life I only know that he had to change many homes as no one wanted his dysfunctional parents as tenants. When he moved next to our office just before his accident it would take a few more shifts before I put my foot down and decided to get the family a fixed home. I still remember the day in March 2004 when we found them a home near our office and I was hastily summoned as the women of the family began abusing his mom and saying they did not want their neighbourhood sullied by a woman who drank. I stood by her with the two year old in my arms till an alternative was found. From an array of rather sordid homes Utpal landed in my house as his mom was sent to rehab. Two months later he went to Boarding school. Holidays were again spent in various surroundings: a midway home that accepted kids, our women centre when his mom was there, our women centre with staff, with a sprinkling of short stays in again sordid homes and finally at home with me. It took him time but finally he has accepted this as his home.

Shifting his school was necessary as for reasons beyond our control the old school had stopped being the enabling environment he needed. To fulfil his destiny Utpal needed to broaden his horizons. He needed to learn to communicate in English, widen his social circle and above all find a place where he would understood and nurtured. I hope with all my heart that tis school will be all this and more.

I will be seeing him on the 23rd when his new school celebrates its Annual Day. He will be a little lost I guess but part of the show nevertheless. I will be the proud parent watching with my heart.

Growing up is hard. But Utpal is a survivor and a blessed soul. He will fulfil his destiny.

May God always walk with him.

As I write these words Utpal is on his way to join his new school. I kept the promise I made him when he was crying his heart out. When he was with us for one night, I showed him the beautiful message someone he has never met sent him. It said: Do you know how amazing you are? You are a very strong lad. Good luck in your new school. It sounds like a lovely place where you’ll find many good friends and caring teachers. I’m so happy for you. I took the liberty to add a quote to this photo of yours: “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” You are truly a brave and  wise soul. I want you to know that you inspire me. Every time I look at this giggly pic of yours (after all that you’ve been through, still you continue to smile brightly) it lights up my day and gives me courage to move forward in life. I want to ‘THANK YOU’ for that! Better things are coming your way little one. My love and prayers are always with you. God bless!
I second every word!

I was  wondering what could be going on in his little head when my thoughts travelled back in time to the days when I was his age and even younger. It is funny that I never remembered till now how I too had to deal with change umpteen times and how traumatic it was. If he has his scars, I had the wrong colour of skin and a funny sounding name! In my school life I went to many schools in many cities: Paris, New Delhi, Rabat, Saigon, Algiers and Geneva. not counting nursery school in Beijing when I was a toddler. I realise today how traumatic these changes were and how difficult it was for me to be accepted and make friends and each time I felt settled Papa would come home and tell us we were posted to another country. To me it meant having to start all the saga of being accepted all over again. It also meant learning a new culture and sometimes a new language as I was sent to local schools. At that time I guess it was survival mode and I needed just like Utpal to build walls around me to bear the kind of bullying I was subjected to. India was not a known country and people had strange ideas about it. My classmates use to ask me questions like: do you live in trees in India? or do you all move around on elephants? It use to make me angry and as communication was non existent I use to ask my grandfather to send me pictures of our house and of his car.

As I went to the local schools, I felt different as we always had a chauffeured car and a big one at that. I remember asking the driver to drop me well before school so I could reach school on foot as many of my friends did. I hated being an Ambassador’s daughter! I would have settled being the butcher’s one. I guess things became more difficult as one grew up. When I was 15, my papa sent me to boarding school in Geneva for my final school year. The reason being that there was no proper French school in Ankara where we were posted. It was a school run by nuns and the students of my class (Baccalaureate) were daughters of the uber rich who had failed many times. Some of them had cars and they all wore branded clothes. The school was swanky and we all had single rooms. I was barely 15 whereas my classmates were much older, some being 20! They were not good at their studies and resented me as I was a good student. In the dining hall we had tables of 6 and no one sat at my table. They did not want to sit with the black one! Our names were written on our doors and in the evening they would stand by my door and read my name aloud and laugh. I use to lie in foetal position on my bed and cover my ears with my hands. When I shared this with my teachers they just laughed. One even said you are lucky you can eat all the butter on the table. I did not want butter I wanted friends, I wanted to be accepted, I wanted to be one of them.

I had forgotten about this but Utpal’s shifting schools brought all this back and the images were as vivid as if they had happened yesterday and the wounds as raw and the pain as searing. Even after half a century!  I know how difficult it is to get accepted and how terribly hurtful it is when you are not. I just hope and pray that all goes well with little Utpal.

The last I heard from him was that the admission procedures were still not over as they had to buy all that he needed. I cannot begin to imagine how this lad will feel once those who mamaji and dharmu bhaiyya leave and he moves into unknown territory with his brand new trunk and his brand new clothes! I also wonder how quickly he will fall asleep in a strange place where everything is new. Today I send a special prayer to the God of little boys to descend from the Heavens and hold his hand through the night. I am sure he will. Maybe in the form of another little boy who sleeps in the bed next to his.

I for one know sleep will not come easy!

Yes little one: It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. I have walked that path.

As promised, I brought Popples home yesterday. Today he will go to his new school. What a big step for a this tiny lad. We packed his bag, bough a few things that were needed and then it was time to enjoy being home. It all began with a carom game that was great fun, then his favourite dinner : chicken and chapatis. I left him with the girls and went to bed. Sleep did not come easy as my mind was full of thoughts and questions. Will he settle down fast? Will he make friends? Will he be happy? And then I started wondering what was going on in his mind. I know he is apprehensive about how other children will react to his scars, to his poor English, to the questions he has no answers for : what do your parents do, what is your father, your mother’s name. I know he will find  answers let us not forget he is a survivor and does walk into people’s heart. I pray to the God of small beings to sprinkle enough magic dust to enable him to conjure all the miracles needed to be accepted in his new school and do it proud. I finally fell asleep on this thought.

While I was ruminating dark thoughts, the magic had already begun. Imagine my utter delight when I switched on my computer and logged into my Facebook page and was greeted by this wonderful picture. After Ranjan and I retreated to our room, the girls and Utpal had plans I did not know off. They all went to the Ice Cream Parlour and got themselves a treat. For Utpal it was a chocolate chip cone! I now wonder what else happened before he finally went to sleep. He is still asleep as I write these words. I will wake him up in a while and then I hope he will smiles all the way to school. It has taken a long time for Utpal to consider my house as home. I will end this post by a quote from the Atharva Veda: Him that has control of departure, that has control of coming home, return, and turning in, that shepherd do I also call.

This picture always breaks my heart. It was taken a few years ago when Utpal when I had to leave him someplace he did not want to be in but we had no choice and the little chap could only express his feelings with tears: tears of hurt, tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears that just meant: you did not hear me. The fact is that we did but had no alternative at that given moment. I know that the resilient and brave kid must have stopped crying and moved to survival mode, but the unshed tears I shed stayed with me: tears of helplessness and of guilt. Even when I see the picture today, I feel as bad as I did now. Many a times I thought of deleting this picture but did not as it was part of the journey Popples and I began way back in 2003. This must have been taken in 2007. He was just five and already in boarding school.

Since that day we have had occasional tears but not many. Even when he was upset in school he kept quiet and what was missing was his smile. His cries for help matured with age: bad marks in school, confidential chats with his counsellor or at best a quickly muttered: I do not like the school, within my earshot. He was again on survival mode. Slowly we adults head his silent entreaties and took the step I guess we has hoping for: a new school where he would be heard!

On Monday he visited his new school and fell in love with it at first sight. I think what he saw was people willing to listen to him, people who wanted to acknowledge his plus points and highlight them. He put his best foot forward and behaved like a Prince. He even struggled to find English words to answer his new Principal. She saw his effort and gently switched to Hindi. When I presented his last report card that was not good, she simply closed the it and said: marks did not matter! On the other hand she urged us to send him as soon as possible so that he could participate in the skating zonal competition scheduled for the end of the month. Utpal was over the moon.

Yesterday Utpal had to go back to his old school. When the car came to fetch him, he came to say goodbye, but then burst into tears exactly the same way he had in the picture. He pleaded and wept his heart out. I told him that I did not want him to leave his old school like a coward and wanted him to leave his head held high. I promised him that we would get him home today and in his new school tomorrow. He finally settled down in my arms and picked up his bag and left. His last glance was one of total trust that said: please don’t let me down.

Utpal’s tears yesterday revealed how much he suffered in silence in the last year where he was bullied and even humiliated time and again, the worst being when his class teacher chose to state in a loud and shrilly voice that he was a liar! For me that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I knew his time in that school was up.

We will bring him home today!

Dear Ma,

Today is your birthday. You would have been 96. But you left me 23 years ago to live each day of my life with memories of you. But that is not all. You were such an extraordinary person in so many ways that I feel compelled to at least live up to your expectations and make sure that I remain worthy of all your sacrifices be it your decision to not to give birth to a slave child even if that meant remaining unmarried, or the acceptance of having just one child, you who wanted to have a whole football team! Had I got siblings then maybe we together could have fulfilled all your dreams, but God had other plans and wanted me to be the one to do so. That was/is a tall order. I am still busy fulfilling your dreams.

I chose this picture to illustrate this post as this is where it all began. You were so very ill at my birth and we almost lost you. This must be one of the first pictures when we ‘met’ and in spite of the terrible surgery you had and in spite of the excruciating pain, you gifted me your incredible smile for the first time. It is this smile I held on to all my life and still do. I wonder what your thoughts were as you held this little bundle with its funny hairdo? I know that I was in heaven as I was close to the first home I knew: your womb. As I grew up I came to know your unique life path from a hungry freedom fighter’s brave daughter to an ambassador’s wife! And above all a mother to a difficult and rebellious child who grew up to be a difficult rebellious woman. I guess you are at fault here as you too lived life in quiet rebellion by fighting for every right you could have been denied: the right to education as you grabbed every single degree available to you; the right to independence as you lived alone in Delhi and worked for the right of other women when people your age were married with umpteen kids.

I slowly imbibed your every word, and drunk your every smile. I cannot ever remember you being angry. Everything you told me was safely tucked into some recess of my mind, but ma I had to live my life before I could comprehend the lessons you so gently shared over a life time. And when pa left a few months later to join you, it would take a deep depression that lingered on for years and a chance encounter with a pure soul that was considered the dregs of humanity, to jolt me out of my almost catatonic state. Will you ever forgive me for the years I wasted, you who cherished life so much that you refused any form of palliative care and bore your pain with courage and dignity, a dignity you fought hard to maintain till the very end?

For the past 15 years now, Ma I have tried to fulfil a mission dear to your heart but that you could not complete as life took over. Ina very small way I am trying to give education to underprivileged children and skills to women so that they can gain some economic freedom. Were you not the one who always told me that it was important for women to keep their financial independence. You never believed in joint accounts!

When I look back at these 15 years I feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment though there is still so much to do. I am glad that you are not here to see how we have destroyed the country you and the likes of you fought for. Today there are more hungry and dying children than when you were young and over half of the population struggles to make ends meet. On the other side of the spectrum you have riches you cannot begin to imagine. We have malls that beat Faubourg St Honore! But what is missing is compassion and empathy. It is as if there were 2 Indias that moved in parallel concentric circles. Money is today’s measure of success and in this I have failed miserably. As for compassion I have it in abundance and feel so helpless at times.

The values that pa and you taught me are difficult to follow, in today’s world they are almost a handicap, something people laugh at! I only hope that I can live by these values till my last breath. I have tried to inculcate them in my daughters though sometimes I feel almost guilty, as it will make their lives that much harder, but then they too have your blood running in their veins.

There are times when I feel like the little girl in the picture, the only difference is that the there is no one to hug her and give her that incredible smile.

I miss you mama

anou

I am over the moon today! The reason? A smile that had got lost somewhere along the way is back. Utpal’s smile! The one that  could light my darkest hour in a jiffy. Sadly it had got lost for too long. The bullies and their allies had taken care of that! Yesterday we went to see a knew school for Utpal as he was having a tough time in his present one. I was apprehensive as the new school is far bigger and joining midterm is never easy. But all my fears were allayed when Utpal began smiling and never stopped. He proved us wrong in every way imaginable. We had feared that he would be fearful, withdrawn, edgy, clingy. Far from that. He was to the manor born. His body language, his smile, his gait, everything was transformed.

Me met the counsellor and had a long chat with her and was composed and serious in the Principal’s room. He was introduced to two students and believe it or not he initiated the conversation. My heart went out to him when he struggled to find the correct English words but did not break into Hindi. never mind the grammatical mistakes. I was so proud of him. I knew that once again Utpal the survivor had come out of his shell. He knew that his life would change if the school accepted him and he put his best foot forward and walked into many hearts.

The Principal was lovely as she told him he could join now and even said she would make sure that he participated in the skating zonal competition! When I gently pushed his latest report in front of her, she closed it and said marks did not matter, what mattered was that he be happy! Marks would happen in due course. I know he will shine and make us all proud.

Today he needs our love and blessings.

Come to think of it there were two of us smiling all the way!

Utpal maybe soon moving to a new school. If all goes well it could be in less than a month. The need for the move has been on the anvil for quite some time. It had to happen for more reasons than one. For the past 3 years or so, Utpal has been deeply disturbed and in therapy. This was to be expected as the violence, abuse and pain you suffer during your very early childhood manifests itself in your pre-teens. Utpal had a very violent and unstable early childhood as the child of alcoholic parents and with the mother being severely bipolar. When he was one he also had to bear the excruciating pain of third degree burns in a country where pain management is close to non existent unlike other countries were severely burnt children are kept anaesthetised in the early stage of their treatment. Then he also had to deal with his mother not giving sign of life for 4 years. As he grew up, he also had to deal with the scars on his body which make him ‘different’ and bear the bullying that ensued. All this put together was too much to bear and unfortunately the school was not able to comprehend the extent of his pain.

The school was ideal for the 4 year old who needed to find security and love. That was given in abundance in the early years by some very understanding and loving staff members but as he grew into a pre adolescent and deal with boys, self image and other issues, the one enabling environment became stifling. Moreover the need for him to be able to integrate an English speaking environment was not fulfilled as sadly in spite of 6 years in an English medium school, his spoken English is poor. I guess this is a sad reality in our education system. I was told that in a school somewhere in rural India, children were fined if they spoke Hindi and the only language they were permitted to speak in was English. A good model to follow.

Anyway nothing is eternal and the wheel of change has to move.

I am reminded of the song made famous by the Byrds :
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven.

So maybe the time for Utpal to move on has come! He has got what he needed from this school but now he needs more: widen his horizons, hone his skills, enlarge his friends circle by meeting children from other parts of the country. But that is not all. This school having day boarders and thus buses will enable him to come home often and have regular counselling.

Utpal has always been older than his years. I realised this when he was just a toddler. Somehow this aspect of his personality got obliterated by the slew of problems he had to face, when behaving like a child was what was the right cried for help: his grades fell, his behaviour was challenging to say the least. Had he come and said what was bothering him in a serious and adult manner either one would not have believed him or one would not have taken the required steps.

Yesterday he met with his counsellor has I wanted her to have a talk with him and prepare him for the change that awaits him. He said that he did want to change schools but had apprehensions: that his English would be poor compared to that of his new school mates; that they too may make fun of his scars and above all how would he make friends? His counsellor gave him coping strategies and told him she would visit the school and talk to all concerned and explain everything. He was relieved. But I know my little man will not show his fears. We will have to stand behind him all the way and be there when needed. The counsellor also asked to speak Hindi to him when he his home on week ends and that is his comfort zone.

Let us not forget, the school he is in has been the longest ‘home’ for this child of God. He entered its portals when he was 4 and is leaving when he his almost 12. Good, bad, indifferent it was the only place he knew. So leaving will not be easy for him. The counsellor talked of change akin to seasons that change. I think he understood. Now only time will tell.

In a few minutes we are setting off to have a smart hair cut and buy new clothes for tomorrow’s interview. I hope he likes the new school. One thing is certain: if he does not like it then we put our searching boots again!

For the past nine days, India has been celebrating Durga Puja, the nine days when the Goddess is celebrated in all her divine forms. She is celebrated by one and all, including the men who rape, abuse and denigrate women each and every day. I wonder if they realise that these very women are the image of the Goddess they revere with ‘faith’. Night long prayers, visit to temples braving unheard of queues and much more. A recent advertisement campaign chose to highlight domestic violence by a depicting a series of bruised Goddesses. The campaign was received with mixed feelings. Personally, I have nothing against it it can make even the slightest difference. But that is to be seen.

Every year, during Durga Puja, I have written about this dichotomy asking myself what a young girl who is normally abused and ill treated feels when she is worshipped, as on the 8th or 9th day people gather 8 or 9 girls and wash their feet and feed them. What about the other 364 days? To me praying to the Goddess makes no sense if we as a society do not respect women. To me you acquire the right of worshipping a Goddess only after you make sure that every woman be she 1 or 100 is treated with respect and dignity. In a land where girls are killed for falling in love, babies and toddlers are raped, all you need is to have a vagina, where women are beaten and kicked, Goddess worship has no place. But that is just my humble opinion.

Yet this year the rains have played spoilsport on all the celebrations and in another part of the country we await a cyclone of immense magnitude. I would like to believe that it is a sign from the Goddess to remind us of our place, rid us of our hubris, and makes us start hearing and seeing with our hearts. I would like to believe that every drop of rain is a tear from the heavens meant to jolt us out of our indifference. I would like to believe that we realise that the Goddess is not in the image we make of her but in the depth of the eyes of the most abused woman or little girl!

I cannot end this post without writing about another aspect of these festivities, one I call feeding frenzy. During these days it is said that one should feed the poor. On every street, at every corner people erect tents and cook meals and feed whoever passes by, it could be me or you. The food is often made hurriedly, the bread (puris) cooked on high heat are often raw and thrown away. At the end of the day you are left with food strewn all over the places, precious good quality food that could feed many hungry children. This makes me sick and angry as in this very country there are mothers who ferret rat burrows to find a few grains to feed their children.

Need I say more!

I’m not proud of it, but I cannot deny it: I’m angry at God!

I wrote these words 4 days ago when I heard that Utpal’s mom had reappeared. But then for some strange almost eerie reason, my fingers froze and I just could not add a single word. And though the anger still simmered in my had, I could hear a soft almost ethereal voice whispering what is best called my father’s mantra: the big picture, the big picture. I just switched off my computer and walked away. I needed to take a pause and take another look at the situation which had made me utter blasphemous words. I am glad I did. But I must confess not before I had sent out some seething mails!

Need to put all this in context for those reading this blog. On Friday last, as Dharmendra and I were coming back from the hospital after leaving Ranjan with his best friend in the chemo day care, Dharmendra got a call. I could see from his face that it was unexpected news, and not a pleasant one. And I was right. The Damocles sword that had been hanging on our heads for almost 4 years now, and indirectly on Popple’s head though he did not quite realise it had fallen. Utpal’s mother was back from the boondocks she had vanished to. In that split moment I was assailed by zillion questions needing answers I did not have and felt my anger rising as I asked myself why and how much more would this child have to suffer. What kind of God in the heavens scripted such unfair and hurtful lives where children were hurt time and agin and in every way possible.

Utpal is going through a very difficult time. When he needed his mother most she vanished. I cannot begin to make you understand the pain of a 7 year old who wonders why his mom has gone AWOL, and the total helplessness of the one who had to find the right words to answer questions without lying or fabricating a story that would make it easier for the child. I can never forget the innumerable times when the little lad floored me with one liners that broke my heart. You know why I eat so many biscuits he would say when I checked him on his gargantuan ability of gobbling down biscuits, it is because my mother always bought me biscuits!

When he did not get the answers he wanted, Utpal had a meltdown. It took us a long time to I would not say heal, but I guess the word would be mend or soothe his pain with the help of a child psychiatrist, regular counselling and medication, laced with as much love as one could give, to make him better. Then when we thought that things were finally getting back on course, he revealed to his counsellor how much he was being bullied by his peers in school because of his scars. In spite of several interventions with the school authorities, we decided that he needed a change of school as the enabling environment he needed to bloom was not possible in these conditions.

Miraculously we found a new school and were in the process of getting admission when this news blew us all of our shaky feet. Utpal will not be able to deal with the reappearance of his mom at this moment of his life, and more so because we knew that with her alcoholic ways and bipolar disorder she may just vanish again. Just imagine what would happened to the child.

Utpal’s mom is a very unstable person. True she has had an abusive life. But in many ways she is a very selfish person, almost childlike. She is what we call spaced out, batty! I could have bet my bottom dollar that her turning up out of the blue had nothing to do with maternal love, though knowing her, she is a great actress and would/will put up a great show when he meets he son next.

I am never one to separate a child from his mother. I did not want it for Utpal. For about five years we tried every trick in the book to stabilise her and give her a second chance in life. She was admitted in psychiatric care, went through many rehab programmes, spent almost a year in residential care. We set up our residential women centre primarily so that she could have a job and a place to stay where she would be safe and cared for. That would also be the place her son could spend his holidays with her. But she blew it all. Her Nemesis was/is? the man she ran away from leaving her daughter from her first husband behind. She had two children who died of neglect and then came Utpal. He too would have succumbed to his burns had we not been there to take care of him.

When her psychiatric suggested we help her set up home with her ‘husband’ we did, sparing no cost. They drank all the money and tools! They felt that because of Utpal they could extort anything they wanted. It was pure hell. That is when we approached the Child Welfare Committee and I got his guardianship. Realising that the hen that laid golden eggs was dead, they vanished.

I am willing to bet not only by proverbial bottom dollar but even my last shirt, that she had come back with a plan and not because of her child. Let us not forget that she did not make a single call since March 2010 to enquire about the well being of her son. So I did not fall of my chair when she announced quite merrily to one and wall that she was getting married and she wanted help to open a small cigarette shop! She would be willing to perform all the melodramas needed to get what she wants!

For some time I was mad, and hence the first lines of this blog, but then the big picture theory took over and I began counting my blessings. This time we are not alone, we have the law on our side. This is the time to get rid of the Damocles sword once for all. I wrote a letter to the CWC explaining the situation. As luck would have it most of the bench was present and free so I could discuss the case with them. It was time we found a permanent solution. I presented the case to the best of my ability and told them that Utpal is in no emotional state to meet his mom at this time as he as his emotional immunity was very low and he had to settle in a new school.

The Chairperson, a wonderful lady, gave me a patient hearing. I told her about Utpal of course but also about the possibility of further blackmail by the mother. She has asked to meet Utpal’s counsellor before she decides whether or not he should meet his mom at this time or later. She also added that any meeting will the at the CWC under the supervision of a social worker. She has also summoned the mother and will tell her that asking any monetary or other help from the people/organisation who look after her son is akin to child trafficking!

The convocation is tomorrow. In Scarlett O’ Hara’s words: Tomorrow is another day!

For the past months now I have been on a kind of sabbatical, one I did not really ask for and definitely did not want. Ranjan’s cancer has altered my life in more ways than one, some for the better, some for the worst but all in the game I guess as life’s journey is not always what we would wish for. Anyway one of the downsides is the fact that I am not as present as I would like to be for project why. I guess I could find the time if I did not have to battle my own demons and need to have a new kind of parallel personal life to the one that has made me into a poor ersatz of Florie Nightingale! But I do get my glimpses into my dear project, albeit indirectly and surreptitiously. It could be a picture I am asked to download or bribes of a conversation when my core team drops in. So this post is dedicated to the children of project why and their incredible spirit.

It is Diwali soon and as every year my very special kids are painting their diyas. This is one of their ways of earning a little money and celebrating Diwali together. To many of you the diyas in this picture may look shoddy but when I tell you that they have been painted by children who have a wide range of disabilities where some can barely hold still, let alone hold a paint brush without shaking, they take on a whole new dimension. These diyas are lamps of hope and love. Each one is painstakingly crafted by our kids in the expectation that they would all be bought. For them this is a matter of being recognised and accepted by the very people who think of them as hopeless. They are heart broken when no orders came by. I guess everybody does not see with his/her heart!

But believe me these diyas are special as they come to you from the heart of those that people have shunned but who are the children of a very special God. The one you see in this picture was made by Manu for me the Diwali before he left us. Manu was the quintessential example of the reality that no life is worthless, and every life a gift of God. Had we not met, there would have been no project why. His wretched existence was what stirred a soul I had thought dead after the demise of my parents. I guess it had just frozen, waiting for a tear to kick back to life. For a moment, after his death, I was ready to give up but then I realised that the only way to honour him was to ensure that the show goes on, in homage to this saintly soul. I am so happy to see that once again diyas are being painted just as they were when Manu was around. I hope those of you in Delhi will see with your heart and order a few. I promise they come with the magic of making dreams come true.

TO ORDER PLEASE CALL SHAMIKA 9899134340 OE EMAIL US AT: projectwhy@ymail.com

A child is God’s opinion that the world should go on wrote Carl Sandburg. The highlight of my day is the few minutes we Skype with Agastya my grandson and the days we don’t are not ‘nice’! We have been Skyping since the day he was born when just seeing him sleeping in his mother’s arms was enough to make the old fuddy- duddies (read nani and nanou) was enough make our day. Then smiles were added on, gurgles, nonsensical words and finally coherent phrases. Now our little fellow has turned four an a half and has his own takes, some very profound on the world and life. The lad has been in New Orleans for the past 4 days and we have not seen as much as we would have liked of him but he has appeared a few times and delighted us in is inimitable ways. Now our little chap is a great globetrotter and has seen more places than one could imagine so his concept of countries and cities are quite clear. He has also learnt many languages and at some point decided to speak like Elmer Fudd.

His opening lines when we connect are often: how are you guys in India? Is everything good there? and we respond with Good and how is Paris, St Louis, London  depending on where he is at that precise moment. And the conversation goes on. Last time we connected we asked him which place did he like most and pat came the answer: I like all countries and cities I go to. We were speechless. Though these words may be taken lightly, tome they were profound and touching. Here was a child that saw beyond colours, races, languages and all that divides. Maybe there is a lesson in these simple words for all of us and a true vindication of Sandburg’s words: A child is God’s opinion that the world should go on!

Need I say more?

Recently a staff member’s parents fell ill. This staff member has been with me for many years and over these years she and her family have moved up the social ladder slowly but steadily and are now what one would call a lower middle class family. They still live in the same ‘house’, but this house has been spruced up and extended. The children attend a good public school and the family’s life has changed in more ways than one be it the food they eat or the clothes they wear. I think their wardrobe is larger than mine! Gadgets have found their way in the home and from survival mode they have moved on to urban living mode and are empowered.

When you move up the social ladder you feel compelled to give up certain things that you had accepted for long and that is medical facilities. 10 years back they went to the local quacks when they were ill or doctors who are not really doctors but glorified compounders. There is even one whose boards states that he was trained in Vienna! When your were truly unwell, then you strutted to the closest government hospital.  Strangely or perhaps this is part of the social mobility, the first thing they lose faith in  are state run hospitals, even the ones I would prefer if I had the right contact, and rush to private hospitals that are expensive and with poor medical ethics if any. In this case they shelled out more than 100 000 rupees for the both parents! They did not have any medical insurance.

But let us talk about this new kid on the block: medical insurance! If you pause and think you will realise that  medical insurance covers only hospital stay. Now I cannot state a figure but based on my life I thing we as a family have not been admitted for more than 30 days in the last 40 years in a hospital. Papa, being a Freemason, went to their clinic for his tests and spent 9 days in hospital for his cancer surgery. Mama never went to hospitals and anyway in those time there were very few private hospitals and nursing homes. Having a dear friend in AIIMS, my parents had access to the best. Papa being a government servant could have used the Wellington hospital but never did. This was in the seventies and eighties. I spent 10 days in hospital for the delivery of my two girls. So the need of hospitalisation is very minute. But what we spend on are doctor’s visits, occasional blood tests and other medical investigations and medicines. And as we all know this is a substantial amount. Every visit to the doctor plus medicines cost a bomb that no insurance pays.

So who does this great new private insurance truly benefit! Certainly not the patient. Private insurances benefit the big medical business and fraternity. Have you seen how many new fancy hospitals are mushrooming each and every day! I am astounded! Once you cross the threshold of any of these fancy portals, you are drawn into an infernal spiral. Now let us do some maths! let us say you have a 600 000 insurance cover that you pay 15 000 rs per year and you never get hospitalised, then it is sound business! I wonder what the percentage is! Should you get admitted then everything is done to hold on to you and inflate the bill. My cousin brother was according to me DOA after a huge heat attack but was kept ‘alive’ and multiple surgeries performed on him. He was declared dead the next morning and strangely the bill handed to us was very close to his insurance cover. There was a client who would not get back so let us make the max we can!

So medical insurances cover only hospital stay. That is how it goes. I am sure more doctors are recommending hospitalisation! But today I could not repress a smile when I read a news headline: Insurers in spot as medical advances push up treatment costs! The once quite lucrative business seemed to be taking a beating as new and expensive techniques were available and as the patient did not pay from his pocket he sought the best provided it fell within his insurance. If I am insured for 6 lacs, then why should I take the 70 000 option, I will go for the 3 lac one! But as is said in the article, the insurers are now plotting ways to limit their costs. As I said it is all a matter of making money, who cares about the patient!

She was born on October 1st, 1981! From the instant I held her in my arms and looked at a puckered face, I knew she was special. It was visceral and instinctive. I did not know what life had in store for us, but I knew that she was a soul sent to this world to change my life. Shamika was your happy go lucky child that would walk into any heart. She was full of fun and giggles and delighted us at every moment. Her smiles, her one liners that would surprise anyone, her hugs and kisses and her huge fan club  which was headed by her Tatu (my dad) and had members of all ages.The two of them were parthers in crime and shared many things in common, the first and foremost one being their love for food. On the way back from school there had to be a stopover at the bakery where she gorged herself and made me wonder why she was not eating her lunch. Both she and her Tatu had to fight a battle of the bulge! When he left us, she was 11 and took a long time to get over her loss.

There was also an elderly colleague from my Asian Games days who drove many miles to reach our house at the dot of 8 am with a bunch of bananas and then take her for a scooter ride where she sat backwards and buy her anything she wanted from the local grocery store. She just had to point and it was hers. It could be a treat, a shampoo bottle or some other irrelevant thing, but that did not matter to Dear Mr Parwana who loved this child in a way I have never experienced. He called her Choottu Ram and she did the same.

Shamika was bright and spunky child and we all thought she would sail trough school and university and walk the easy road.

But I told you that I had an intuitive flash when I first saw her and knew she was not the one to walk the trodden path.  Shamika had to take the road less travelled very early in life. School was not meant for her as she was all heart, and maths and logic had no place in her mind. But as a parent I had to push her from class to class not hearing her many cries for help. I stand guilty of having not heard for 15 long years. She bravely did her best, but her best was not enough for the systems that exist in our world. Somewhere along the way she had to bear a pain that cannot be healed, a pain that shattered the very foundations of her life. What followed were some terrible years when her life was thrown out of gear and she lived in a shadowy world that the young girl had built to protect herself. It would take many years for her to come out into the light again. She eventually did but left me wondering if I could have done more to protect her. I still live with this guilt and will probably carry it to my grave.

School was never meant for this child who only knew how to look at the world with her heart. When she ‘failed’ an examination by a single mark something happened in me and as I took her in my arms wiping her tears the mother’s instinct made me say the following words: You do not have to school again! Her whole body language changed and I could feel her gratitude in every cell of my being. The ball was in my court. But I stood firm and parried all the silly inanities family and others flung at me. I had my priorities right: first and foremost was my child’s happiness!

Shamika had always told me she wanted to work with special children. So I needed to find in this world where success is measured in certificates and degrees and not in compassion and empathy, a place where my child could reclaim her life. It was not easy as I trudged from NGO to NGO. But ultimately I found what I was seeking. Shamika was 15 when she began to ‘train’ at Action for Autism. I can never repay Merry for accepting her, as she gave my child a second chance in life. Shamika worked for 7 long years with autistic children and in Merry’s words she was like a fish in water. From an unpaid volunteer she became a paid staff! Then one fine day she decided to join me at project why where she looks after our special children with an rare passion and compassion ! The children love her and so does her team.

It is sad that in a country like ours hands down work does not count and though Shamika has spent 17 years working 6 days a week, she cannot sit for a special educator test as she does not have a class XII certificate. I must admit that if Shamika had walked the travelled road I would not have set up project why as in many ways she was my inspiration. I feel humbled and grateful as she is the one who opened my eyes to a whole new world I never knew existed and fell in love with.

Today Shamika is a stunning young woman who has dreams of her own, exceptional talents and a quiet strength that is often not revealed or accepted. My hope is that she finds her way to happiness and will stand by her till my last breath.

I will end with a quote that sums it all: What I want most for my daughter is that she be able to soar confidently in her own sky, whatever that may be.

Happy birthday dear child and thank you for having come into my life.

Ranjan’s cancer, let us call it by its name as I always feel that is the best way to put things in the right perspective, has had a bitter sweet side effect: time to make our bucket list(s). I must admit that I had often thought of bucket lists and even written about them. Rereading the one I made on April 15, 2010 made me smile and cry at the same time. It all happened when I stumbled on a website that gave reasons for why we did not make bucket lists in time. I will quote the reasons stated:

– you’ve probably never taken the time to figure out who you really are, let alone ponder why you’re here.

– you’ve even avoided doing what really matters to you because you didn’t want to admit to everyone that you’ve got a hole in your blessed bucket;

– maybe you’ve just convinced yourself that, by some miracle afforded by the fountain of youth, you’ll never have gray hair or lose it, or ever have to “kick the bucket”.

Those were happy days! Healthy days! Days when you did not even think that anything could go wrong. Or were they simply days of hubris. Anyway I did start making a bucket list of sorts. In those days my list sounded rather airy and a tad flippant and I quote again:

As I sat pondering at what I would write on that my bucket list, I realised that I actually have already begun one surreptitiously and that it has one big item looming large and named: Planet Why whose bye line should be: ensure that my work of ten years does not go waste and secure the lives of those God in his wisdom dropped my way. Whether Planet Why will be the green haven that will house my wards, or a cold bank deposit that will pay its monthly deposits, or something still unknown I do not know. All I know is that this is the most important thing on my bucket list. I could expand it in many ways: see that Manu his pals live with dignity till their last breath, see Utpal and his pals graduate with honours and become worthy citizens, ensure that as long as God permits hundred of children are given the skills and education needed to break the circle of poverty they are locked in and so on. Ambitious maybe, but a matter of life and death for me.

I would also have a small personal and somewhat selfish list: see my daughter settled and happy, write at least another book, see my grandson grow, take that long due holiday with my life partner, heal all unnecessary hurts, be healthy and brimming with energy and exit with a smile.

It sounded as if I was in control of the rest of my life and quite content.

Let us forward to 30 September 2013, 3 years after I wrote those words. Planet why is now a distant dream, Manu left me but lived his last breath with dignity so that is a big check on the list; Utpal is fighting demons I could have never conjured in my hubris, and project why is thriving on the field on  very fragile foundations.

Never in my wildest and worst nightmare would have I thought that the opening lines of my personal list would be: see Ranjan survive his cancer! Cancer was banned for those I loved, it had claimed too many and I would have only accepted it if it were to hit me! So though all the other items on my personal list remain intact, they are now overshadowed by the arrival of Mr H and by the battle to boot him out. Everything becomes dependent on my victory.

But there is the other list. The one that concerns my extended family: my precious and adored team (even the ones that may have been troublesome or even hurtful) and my children present and future as God has given me the blessing of adding on kids by the day. No nine months here! All that is needed is a big heart and that is something I have. Here again I will make sure that hubris does not blind me. Planet Why will not be the fancy structure that would have raised funds and empowered communities. But planet why in its new avatar will certainly continue the dream, truncated, diminished but still very much alive.

This is probably, after resettling Utpal ( and the process has begun), the item number one on my project why bucket list. My thoughts are still hazy and vague but the idea is to find a small piece of land close to the women centre and near a legal resettlement colony and build a small centre. This will be made possible when we sell the land we had bought for Planet Why avatar 1! The appreciation and size of that land would make it possible to buy and build a smaller project. Of course it will built in the model Laurie Baker had created for slums! We will build as much as we can and later the succession can raise money to extend the building room by room!

The next item is more tricky as the funding model we have is fragile and dependent on one person. The miracle would be an Angel willing to place a certain sum of money in a trust fund. The capital would remain theirs and we would run with the interest. This is wishful thinking but I know the God of small things is listening. I also know he will test me before deciding to send me an Angel or not! In case of the later, I will just have to believe in the maxim: The King is dead; long live the King. At lest the new kind will inherit a building and the goodwill I have garnered over the years.

This is where I stand today with a small petition to all those who have helped, trusted and believed in me: please send a little prayer up in the sky to see that my bucket list is completed in time.

I will again end this post with George Bernard Shaw is poem which says it all: